Not be

The searing reminders of innate fallibility,
subconscious pillars of darkness wept,
supporting the crumbling azure high

Recurring rejection in sobering plentitude,
feigned adulation for favors in the interim,
naught but nothing remains

There’s no escaping the erubescent sear,
holding sway beneath the eyes, from
consuming the hymns of songbirds

There’s no escaping the being in being here,
the destructive reality of misguided fantasy,
except to simply not be

art: untitled 42 by Peterio

Obtusion

Obreptitious obtusion, a brume
blurring periphery, turbid blinders
marshaling the focus of roaming
attentions; phosphenes dancing for

distraction, a seductive temptation
to engage mental vacuity; his defense
mechanism hiding horrors and masking
merriment – horrors in their own right;

zoomorphologically thrusting his head
into the sands of time, waiting for
the remains of his body to join; an
evolutionary dereliction of societal

participation, insouciance learned
a posteriori; life is a merciless pedagogue,
rapping the knuckles of its insubordinates,
the recalcitrants of its self-proclaimed

preciousness…

art: Masterstudy 39 by Christian Klute

Epiphany

An ineluctable epiphany taints the morning
air breathability, a noxious duality bearing
curiosity and causality; too inquisitive to mould
his nascent suitability, too unmoulded to warrant

the necessity of equanimity; a purgatory of
instability, his isolation and its unsustainability,
embrace taciturnity or be silenced for all eternity;
a boiling proclivity perturbs the surface of

morality -if there exists such a commodity- when
alternatively an eventuality unfolds… unbridled
machinations smear his sanity with self-directed
profanity of an apparent lack of humanity; one

plumbum at high velocity could cure the
abnormality, or candy red fountains of sanguinity
might disenthrall the infirmity, or would liberating
his sole suspendedly alleviate his mental disability;

perhaps a contraption of ingenuity to net all three,
in a long-coming cacophony of certainty & finality;
engenderment of vacuity, tranquility in the writhe-
free, wight-free, write-free intractability of reality

art: by Zdzisław Beksiński

Zugzwang

Turbid sludge coerced through ever
constricting jugulars, thickening
with peculiar particulates; a
dreamcatcher gallows whereby

esperance was strung until still,
whose relics there yet hang in
derision of their host; spectres of
malcontent haunting in compunctious

preoccupation, an arterial ossuary
of sacramental wolfsbane coagulated
in bloodwine; a straitjacket of
skin taut to tearing, confining the

restless bedlam of torpor through
indecision; the hurled rubble and
obfusation of unfurled divergent
journeys, zugzwang in disasterous

perpetuity; whyfor a heart circulate
such malicious discontent; what then
betides a soul upon releasing the
consanguineous slithering serpents

art: Burned III by carlosgarijo

Froth

She just wanted to dance

Even without music, she’d lose herself in the motion and emotion
Her dancing was the music, her body the instrument
And there was only one job for her in this anachronistic, one road, wasteland

Dancing for men
Men with wives who couldn’t do better
Men trying to recapture verility or prove it never left
The kind of men who froth hyperbolically of former conquests and self-percieved prowess
Regaling their ilk with vainglorious almosts and rageful if-onlys
Again and again

She couldn’t see them from the stage
They were hidden behind the diaphanous sheet of pungent smoke and the one-way mirror protecting her fragility

The howls and cat calls, the subtle suggestions and outright offers were directed at her, as much as to their own starving egos

No matter
She couldn’t hear them either
She learned, many years ago, to just hear the music

Her music drowned out the vitriolic bile, secretive desire, and drunken apologies of an abusive father
The acidic whispers and unsurprising deceit of jealous girlfriends
And the pressurized come-ons of their zealous, couldn’t-do-better boyfriends
…whose apple trees now whistle at the legal, little bird

She danced to get away from this petri dish, forever her home

To bide her time
To survive another day
And another night

She just needed to dance